Why did you never feel pain?
by hadejayden
Summary: Post-His Last Vow: Sherlock and Moriarty meet again near a secluded laneway at the Tower of London. It's nighttime and Sherlock finally feels something.


_Why did you never feel pain? _

Once again, the critical question posed within the confines of his mind palace had crept towards Sherlock's attention. Every now and then, it would arrive, seeming to un-expectantly erupt from the depths of his psyche, leaving him feeling disorientated and vulnerable. It lay dormant, sometimes for weeks at a time, until it surprised him again, rising up to his consciousness like a bad dream he thought he'd forgotten. Jim Moriarty's face would appear for a split second, filthy and beaten, with that manic grin plastered on his lips, and then he would dissolve, as quickly as he had come.

It had been him that Sherlock had asked the question… So why did it seem so self-reflexive, and so _accurate_ for his own emotive state?

He cared as much as he could possibly care about those who filled his life, and yet, in comparison to somebody who might be considered 'normal' by societal standards, this did not measure up in the slightest. His relationships with others seemed forced and unnatural. It was as if he had tried to absorb the emotions and conducts of the people around him, and projected them in his own actions. Because that's what people do. Never mind physical pain and anguish – they weren't important. Sometimes it seemed difficult just to_ feel_.

He knew that was what made him and Moriarty so alike. That's why he had chosen Sherlock to harass, and to manipulate, and why it was his name scrawled over the walls of a holding cell, and not someone else's. In some ways, they were same. And it sickened him.

Why did you never feel _anything? _

It had been almost three years since Moriarty had willingly blown a bullet through his own skull. It had been even longer since then that the same man had made his apparent "come back", as the press were calling it, that had brought a certain reign of terror down upon London. But that was all it was. No terrorist attacks, no elaborately planned break-ins, no kidnappings. No Moriarty. Under the watchful attentiveness of Lestrade, and almost constant surveillance of Scotland Yard, Sherlock had been examining all possible motives behind the little stunt that had caused the pompous criminal's face to appear on every television screen in the country simultaneously. Other than declaring the act as extremely egotistical, Sherlock had not had much to say on the subject. He had seen Moriarty kill himself on the rooftop of St Bart's – there was nothing else to debate. Until now.

Scotland Yard were good, but they weren't _that_ good, and it had only taken Sherlock one phone call to divert their attention long enough to order himself a cab and quietly slink away from Baker Street.

Seventeen minutes ago he had received a text from an unknown number, simply stating – "Tower of London. Now"

And following this, almost as if the sender feared his message had been too elusive, another arrived saying – "Did you miss me? x"

Moriarty was back.

Despite the possibility of threats and violence awaiting him at his destination, Sherlock felt oddly eager towards the prospect of finally being reunited with his anthesis. The dynamic with Moriarty had been what had enthralled and excited him about his work for months. Finally, somebody had existed who was in direct opposition. Finally, he was back.

Exiting the cab, Sherlock quickly made his way towards the gates of the castle. It was almost midnight, and the inevitability of high security rates and CCTV made the idea of somehow managing to break into the area unnoticed seem improbable. Sherlock scanned the surrounding space before placing a tentative hand on the gate in front of him. Just as he did, an all too familiar voice echoed behind him.

"Oh, I wouldn't do that!"

Moriarty was standing with his hands on his hips, shaking his head slowly back and forth, emitting a soft tutting sound. Sherlock turned and met his gaze. Illuminated only by the faint street light secured above him, the consulting criminal's jet black suit carried a soft, yellow glow which travelled as far as his thin neck, casting a pale hue across his face. As he took a small step forward, Moriarty held his palms out in a gesture that could have been considered appeasing, if it weren't for his known psychotic nature. Sherlock's heart pounded.

"Are you coming to say hi, or are you just going to tease me?" he quizzed, one eyebrow rising ever so slightly to accompany his usual flirtatious inflection.

Sherlock tried to appear apprehensive. He told himself that he _should be_ apprehensive. Instead, a sudden wave of elation and thrill rushed through his body. Goose pimples sprang forth on his flesh, but they were not the uncontrollable response of fear. He knew exactly how dangerous this man could be; how he could have easily planted members of his own network within the shadows, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Sherlock knew this, and yet, he began walking forward.

Moriarty grinned and clasped his hands together. "You know Sherlock, I've been waiting for this day for a very long time," he said, when they were only a few feet apart. "I have missed you so much"

His provocative tone alone would have been more than enough to turn anybody else's stomach, but for Sherlock it brought back memories of inspiring cases, laced with intelligibility and a certain hazardous peril that could only have been associated with Moriarty. He recalled excitement, and stimulation that bordered on hysterical. He could _feel_ something.

"Are you giving me the silent treatment?"

Still saying nothing, Sherlock exhaled deeply; unaware that he had been holding his breath since he had begun walking across the space. He let his eyes wander over Moriarty's narrow form. He looked exactly the same. Nothing had changed.

"How did you do it?"

"I might ask you the same thing"

Sherlock stifled a laugh. Double fake suicide - what were the chances? Performing a quick calculation, he determined that they were quite low.

Casually stepping forward, Moriarty began to circle the man in front of him.

"You're probably curious as to why I asked you here, so late at night, just the two of us…" he said, drawing out each word as if his over-pronunciation would heighten the desired chilling effect. "The truth is, Sherlock, that I prefer it when it's just us, you know? No police… No John… No distractions". Noticing that Sherlock's body had become tense, Moriarty smiled, still circulating his prey.

Sherlock could feel his gaze. He could sense those dark orbs drinking him up, as if he were being sucked dry by some invisible force that existed only between them. Gone were any previous attempts of feigned nervousness. All that was left was that feeling of coveted suffocation; the craved claustrophobia that seemed to constrict and release at the same time, the sensation of warm sweat pooling in the hollow of his neck, the idea that Moriarty was consuming him, and that he had somehow climbed inside of him, surrounding his very core.

This wasn't just feeling. This was desire.

"I thought about you a lot while I was away, Sherlock. Lots and lots…" His pace had begun to slow down, but he continued to walk. "I wished that I could have come back sooner. I kept a close eye on you, of course, but it's just not the same as being there. It's different in the flesh. I'm sure you know what I mean, hmm?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow, the friskiness explicit in his voice.

Sherlock kept his mouth shut, almost fearful, but somewhat curious, of what would come out if he opened it. Everything he had learned during his many years of expertise had been emptied from his mind. Every skill he had perfected, every point of deduction had been wiped clean and replaced with the sensation of Moriarty. He found himself wondering what his body would feel like pressed against his, whether it would remind him solely of himself or if it would add even more to the sensitive developments he had been experiencing since he had unlocked his phone and seen that text message. He thought of Moriarty's pale skin next to his own, creating a collision of mirroring contact that was only separated by their own opposing values that, right now, did not seem to matter all too much. He imagined those full lips pressed harshly against his own, only parting slightly to allow his teeth to graze and nibble and bite. He would draw blood, and he would taste it.

Sherlock shifted slightly as he felt a restricted throbbing beneath the waistband of his trousers – one that he had previously only associated with the solving of a particularly satisfying case, or an especially appealing violin piece.

He was jolted from his thoughts by the brush of a slender finger across the nape of his neck. Moriarty was directly behind him.

"I tried to meet new people, Sherlock, I really did. But none of them even came close to you," he was whispering now, his fingertips drawing small circles, leaving a permanent trail of disturbance wherever they touched. Sherlock could feel his breath on the left side of his neck. Having been previously exposed to the wind and coolness of the night, it was now hot and humid. The touch travelled south, consuming the rest of his body until fresh air seemed like nothing but a myth, and the idea of carrying out the remainder of his existence subsumed within Moriarty's respiration seemed probable, and not all that unpleasing.

Stepping to the side, Moriarty allowed his hand to trace the contours of Sherlock's jaw, slowly moving up towards his cheekbone and the smooth curve of his ear lobe. He raised his other hand, and gently tilted Sherlock's face upwards, away from his own.

"You're way more _fun_"

Almost forcing the words from his throat, Moriarty crashed his mouth against Sherlock's neck, taking particular care to ensure his hands were still planted firmly on either side of his head. He sucked and he tasted every point of the soft skin beneath his lips, letting his tongue travel across the beads of sweat that seemed to be constantly coming, multiplying and intensifying with each flick of his tongue. Sherlock remained rooted to the spot, unable to move, even if he had wanted to. He felt as if his body was crumbling under the touch, and he was unaware that he had begun to shake. He clenched his hands into tight fists at his sides, his nails digging deep indents into his clammy palms. He was completely silent until he felt Moriarty's teeth sink into his flesh, his mouth still sucking profusely at the skin trapped between his incisors. A loud gasp escaped him. The erotic pleasures brought on by another had been previously unknown, and this was too new. Dizziness overcame him, his vision blurred. And then, with one final light graze of raw lips on flushed skin, it was over.

Moriarty stepped back, flexing his jaw. His pupils were burning with an animalistic passion that Sherlock had witnessed many times before, but was only now recognising, as lechery.

"You taste just like I'd imagined" he said, pausing to lick his lips. "_Delicious_"

He chuckled to himself and stole a quick glance at his watch. Gasping dramatically, he declared "Oh dear, I really must be getting back!"

Sherlock watched in stupefied awe as Moriarty straightened his tie, and gave him a theatrical wave before hurrying out of the glow of the streetlight, and into the darkness of a long laneway behind them.

When he had finally regained control of his limps, Sherlock awkwardly pulled out his phone and called another cab. He spent the journey back to Baker Street in complete silence, his fingers lightly tracing the deep, purple imprint that had been left on the skin of his neck. He thought of only one thing.

_Why did you never feel pain? _


End file.
